Love in the Library

I was that small tow-headed boy who sat by

himself on the school bus, eyes wide behind thick glasses and nose

buried in a book. So to me, a library job sounded perfect. My

junior year of college I applied for a position and found myself

working evenings seven to midnight, Monday through Thursday, with

weekends off. Because I was the new guy on the shift, I got

assigned to returns.

In theory, it sounded simple enough—each book

had its place on the shelves and none of the patrons could be

expected to put anything back where it belonged. All books that

came into the library were sorted and stacked onto carts, spine up

and sorted by floor. Once a cart was full, I dragged it to the

elevator and began the arduous task of putting the books back in

their proper places. With five stories of stacks, one cart could

take most of the night to empty, and any books left lying around

the study carrels were to be re-shelved, too. As I pushed along my

first cart of heavy hardcover books, I told myself returns weren’t

all that bad. Some people just hated busy work.

But my cart had a bad wheel that jiggled as I

steered it towards the elevators. The noise filled the quiet

library, making me cringe with each step. At the elevators, I

bullied the cart inside an empty lift and hit the button for the

fifth floor.

Nothing happened.

I hit the close button but the doors refused

to obey. I hit the fifth floor button again—nothing. “God,” I

muttered, leaning on the button. My reflection in the mirrored

interior muttered in response—pale eyes blinked at me from behind

wire-frame glasses almost obscured by straight blonde bangs.

“Close,” I encouraged. Thin lips moved on my reflection, a ghostly

mimic. Close.

Disgusted, I let go of the button. As if by

magic, the doors slid shut. “Thank you.” With a jerk, the elevator

began its long, slow haul up while my stomach stayed behind.

Almost out of spite, the doors started to

open halfway between the last two floors. I watched with sick

fascination as the ground beneath my feet crept up to meet the

level of the fifth floor. The elevator stopped with a good inch

left to spare. Note to self, I thought, tugging the cart out

after me, never take the one on the right again.

The cart’s bad wheel bumped against the

uneven floor and turned, wedging itself in the gap between the

floor and the elevator. “Oh fuck me,” I sighed. I hated elevators

and I hated returns, in that order. When I tried to lift the

heavily laden cart up to move it, the wheel pulled free from its

socket and stayed put.

Slowly, the elevator doors began to slide

shut.

Beneath my breath, I cursed. “I fucking

hatereturns.”

The doors stopped when they hit the cart and

opened again. Pushing the cart aside, I bent down to tug the wheel

free from the gap but it was stuck in there good and didn’t budge.

I got on my knees and waited for the doors to close, catch on the

cart, and open again before I leaned in to grab the wheel with both

hands. But my sweaty fingers couldn’t get a decent grip and slipped

right off. I tried running a finger under the wheel, maybe to push

it loose, but my knuckle was too big to get up under it and I

almost lost my hand when the doors tried to close again. They hit

the cart, bounced open, and on the other side I heard a handful of

books tumble to the floor.

Now I hated libraries in addition to

elevators and returns, and in another minute more I’d probably

swear off reading altogether. With a disgruntled huff, I fell back

onto my butt and knocked against the legs of someone standing

behind me. “Enjoying the show?” I asked, bitter.

“You need some help?” came the reply. I ran

my hand through my bangs to brush them out of my face and looked up

to see dark eyes and dark curls above the brightest, sweetest,

sexiestgrin that had ever smiled down on me. I stared

openly as he nodded at the wayward wheel. “Can’t you get it

up?”

Suddenly my mind spun out in a million

different directions at once, leaving the elevator and the cart

full of books far behind. My voice croaked when I told him, “I’ve

never really had that problem before.”

He laughed, a delicious sound that lit up his

eyes. “Maybe if we both work at it, we can pull it out.”

The frustration in me dissipated and I began

to giggle. He gave me a quizzical look, a faint smile on perfect

lips as if waiting to get in on the joke, and that only made me

laugh harder. “I’m sorry,” I sighed, struggling to breathe. “It’s

just—oh God. My mind’s in the gutter. I’m sorry.” I took a deep

breath to steady myself and quashed the last of my giggles to put

on a straight face. “I’m sorry.”

“Laugh at me after I give it a try,” he told

me, but there was humor in his voice and I liked the way his gaze

lingered on me before he turned his attention to the wheel. “I’m

Adam, by the way.”

“Johnny.” I scooted back as he approached the

elevator, studying the problem. Absently, his backpack slipped off

one shoulder to fall beside me on the floor, and when the elevator

doors started to shut, Adam stuck his foot out to stop them. He

circled the wheel, looking at it from all angles, even going so far

as to kick it once but the thing still didn’t move. In a low voice,

I murmured, “Madam, I’m Adam.” At his sharp glance, I shrugged.